


Rosemary, Daisies, and Violets

by ruffboi



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Flower Crowns, Gen, Haunting, Hurt No Comfort, Murder, Possibly Unrequited Love, Prompt Fic, but it's only mentioned briefly, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, the ending is only lightly ambiguous but it's there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi
Summary: "You know," he says, tucking more purple flowers into the crown, nearly but not quite drowning out the white, "I never did catch your name.""Eskel.  You?""Hmm," the man lets out a hum as he seems to consider his options.  Something about it feels oddly familiar, but Eskel can't place it. "I think you can call me Dandelion," he says after a moment.Eskel's asked to deal with a violent specter of some sort, but ends up finding something else entirely.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 165
Kudos: 428
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #001





	Rosemary, Daisies, and Violets

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, dear hearts.
> 
> Written for a witcher flash fiction challenge.

"There's some sorta ghost hauntin' the spring," the village elder had told Eskel when he saw the witcher checking the tiny noticeboard outside the tavern. "It's a holy place to us, but it's poisoning the water, and the thing attacks all who come near! Please, witcher, banish it so we can drink and worship again."

For how little the elder could tell him and how little coin was being offered, Eskel really _should_ move on. It could be a specter or even a demon or something worse. Or it could be nothing but some territorial wolves scaring folk off. But something makes him agree, which is why he's currently cautiously approaching the natural spring where the stream that runs through the local farmland begins.

The spring is in a clearing that Eskel is staying downwind of, in case it _is_ something that could scent him, filled with all sorts of flowers. The sunlight coming through the leaves casts the whole clearing in a soft greenish-gold glow. He sees no sign of any kind of spirit, but there _is_ a man in the clearing, sitting in the grass in his shirtsleeves and red trousers, humming softly and braiding a flower chain of purple and white flowers. As he creeps closer, Eskel can feel his medallion start to tremble slightly.

Either this man is magical and has been scaring off the locals, or he doesn't know about the potential danger and should be warned. Either way, Eskel doesn't have much of a choice but to make himself known if he's going to deal with whatever the problem is. Maybe the man's just a bored mage who needs to be encouraged to cause trouble somewhere else. Eskel doesn't hold out much hope of that, but he could _try_ optimism, right? Someone has to balance Geralt's recently-increased moodiness and Lambert's pessimism, especially now that they have the cub back at the keep over the winters.

So he stands and strides into the clearing.

The man startles when he hears the sound of movement coming through the trees, grip tightening on his flowers, until Eskel steps out into the light. Then, somehow, the man looks him over; takes in his eyes, scars, swords; and relaxes. His eyes are a rather vivid blue that makes Eskel wonder if he's maybe a fae— but no, it's just the sunlight hitting them and his brown hair, lighting them up gold and unnaturally bright.

"Well, hello sir witcher," the man says with a wry twist of a smile. "You're not who I was expecting."

"If you're waiting for your sweetheart, you should pick a safer place," Eskel says honestly, frowning slightly as he tries to process being called 'sir witcher' with what almost sounded like _fondness_.

"Alas, nothing so pleasant," the man says, resuming his flower weaving. It seemed to be taking the shape of a crown or wreath, now that Eskel's closer. The two of them are on opposite sides of the spring, the pool wider than Eskel would've expected, and Eskel can't quite catch the scent of the man. "I rather expected one of the village hunters. They're not particularly friendly back there, in my experience."

"Hmm," Eskel hums thoughtfully as he slowly starts to circle to where the spring flows over into the head of the stream, where he can step over to get to the other side of the clearing. The man looks up at him again when he hears the hum, with an oddly bittersweet expression on his face, like he's heard a lover's voice years after they'd died.

"Use your words, witcher," is all the man says, though, playfully scolding.

"They seemed average enough," Eskel says, stepping over the stream, noting how his medallion vibrates slightly harder as he steps over the water. Something in the water, then, perhaps? That could narrow down what creature was attacking. "You might want to leave, though. The elder said there's a spirit here that attacks anyone who gets near. You've lucked out and it's not likely to last."

The man huffs slightly, pressing his lips together in consternation before appearing to shake off whatever bothered him and smiling again.

"You know," he says, tucking more purple flowers into the crown, nearly but not quite drowning out the white, "I never did catch your name."

"Eskel. You?"

"Hmm," the man lets out a hum as he seems to consider his options. Something about it feels oddly familiar, but Eskel can't place it. "I think you can call me Dandelion," he says after a moment.

Eskel wonders if maybe he's fae after all, being cagey with his name and unconcerned about the possibility of a specter of some sort haunting the spring. Crap.

"I know you're thinking I might be fae or something," Dandelion says, not looking up from his crown, "but I assure you, I'm just being evasive for the moment for personal reasons, not magical ones."

Eskel finally stops in front of him, looking down at him tucking a last few flowers - snapdragons, maybe? - into the crown. "You sure you're not a mage, reading my mind like that?" he asks, choosing amused over suspicious, at least outwardly.

Dandelion barks a laugh, real mirth seeming to bubble up in him, if only for a moment. "Not a mage," he assures, and Eskel can smell the woody, herbal smell coming off him. Chamomile and sandalwood. There's some sadness of some sort hovering under the surface, and something else that Eskel can't quite place yet. "I'm just familiar with the stories."

"Not a lot of people know anything true," Eskel grumbles.

Dandelion smiles fondly, like this is an old, well-trodden argument for him. "No, that's true," he agrees, and pats the grass near him as a clear invitation for Eskel to stop looming and start sitting. Eskel should continue standing, sitting would unreasonably handicap him if they get attacked, but...

Well, there's something about Dandelion that makes him want to listen.

So he sits.

"But I know what little we _do_ know is true," Dandelion continues, turning his flower crown back and forth, as if trying to see any spots that need more flowers. "I know they don't like iron and they're cagey about names because... oh, something to do with magic and having power over someone if they know your true name." He shrugs and smiles at Eskel. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Nothing so fantastic here, I just value my privacy for the moment."

"Where'd you learn to tell the true from the false, when it comes to faeries?" Eskel asks curiously.

Dandelion smiles secretively and presents his completed crown for viewing. "Rosemary, daisies, and violets," he says. "Rather fitting an offering, I think."

"What do they mean?" Eskel asks curiously. He knows about the symbolism of flowers, but he doesn't actually know what that symbolism _is_ , for the most part.

"Ah!" Dandelion brightens a bit, and his posture changes, as if he's giving a lecture of some sort. "That _is_ the question, isn't it! Violets symbolize faithfulness, daisies mean true love, and rosemary is for remembrance." The brightness in him dims, and he brushes a finger over the crown with a wistful sigh.

"Is it for your lover?" Eskel asks, not sure how to turn this conversation back to the potential specter that he should be warning Dandelion away from.

Dandelion laughs sadly. "No. Not a lover. We could've been, maybe, but..." he shakes his head, and glances about for other flowers before snagging a few little yellow blossoms and tucking them in amongst the other flowers. "Well," he says quietly, "like I said: the village isn't exactly friendly, in my experience."

Eskel frowns deeper. _That_ doesn't make any sense to come back to.

"How do you mean?" he asks slowly. "How were they unfriendly to you?"

"Ah, finally the right question," Dandelion says, and leans forward to gently place his flower crown on Eskel's head, to the witcher's shock. "Don't fuss, Eskel darling, you look handsome as anything, and you'll want it later," Dandelion scolds, avoiding answering the question despite it apparently being the right one.

" _Dandelion_ ," Eskel presses, starting to get exasperated, and somehow this startles a laugh out of the young man.

"Oh, I truly do hear the resemblance," he murmurs, his bright blue eyes intense as they meet Eskel's.

"Wh—"

"They have a ritual here, apparently," Dandelion presses on, his tone carefully flippant, looking away as he picks a flower and starts to methodically shred it. "Something to guarantee fertile soil and bountiful harvests and so forth. Once every, oh, five years or so, some unfortunate meets a grisly end, drugged out of their mind, arteries slit to let blood flow downstream, body weighed down with stones to either drown or bleed out at the bottom of the spring."

Eskel blanches as Dandelion speaks, a knot forming in his stomach as Dandelion looks up at him, his expression blank and unreadable. "I believe they did it this year just after the first thaw."

Three months ago. Long enough for a body to decompose enough to spoil the water downstream, if they were drawing close enough to the source of the decay. Eskel pushes himself slowly to his feet and steps to the edge of the spring, Dandelion's eyes intent on him as he moves.

There at the bottom of the spring, not so deep it couldn't be removed but deep enough to be out of reach without diving in, Eskel can see a decaying body. The water warps the image, but he can, at least, see dark hair and red trousers on the poor soul left there.

"Oh," Eskel says softly, and looks back to Dandelion with a small, unhappy frown. Whoever Dandelion was, he seems to have been a bright, interesting person. It's a horrible fate to befall anyone; somehow it seems worse that it was Dandelion. He's not sure why.

"Yeah," Dandelion agrees. " _Oh_."

"So you're the ghost they want me to run off?" Eskel asks.

"I haven't attacked anyone," Dandelion says firmly. "Though I considered it. No, they're just too afraid to face what they did to me to come back and remove my b—" he chokes, finally, his voice wavering as he glances to the water of the spring. Sitting in the grass, he won't be able to see his body, but Eskel thinks it's likely that he doesn't need to see it to feel the weight of its existence.

"I'll get it out, give it a proper burial," Eskel says. Dandelion laughs shakily, his voice thickened by the tears Eskel can smell building in his eyes.

"No you wouldn't, you'd burn it to make sure I don't hang about and _actually_ start haunting people," Dandelion says, sounding resigned. "It's all right. I don't plan to stick around here after you're gone. I just needed to stay around long enough for a witcher to pass through so I could tell someone what _really_ happened. Though I admit, part of me wanted it to be a different one who showed up."

Eskel is many things. Eskel is, despite Dandelion's earlier comment, ugly. Eskel is shit at peeling potatoes despite his best efforts. Eskel is a bit of a lightweight, though only compared to his brothers. What Eskel is _not_ is stupid. There's only one witcher Dandelion could've been wanting specifically, and only one person Dandelion could be.

"He was insufferable all winter," Eskel says quietly. "He wasn't able to look for you much last year because of the war, and collecting the cub. He's out looking for you now."

Jaskier - for it _is_ Jaskier, it has to be - laughs, and his tears spill over onto his cheeks. "Oh," he says faintly. "Good. I mean, not _good_ , just... I'd hoped I was right. That he would feel bad about what happened, and..." he trails off, and pushes himself to his feet. Eskel's surprised to find that Jaskier's almost of a height with him.

"I'm sorry," Eskel says, though there isn't anything he could've done to stop or undo what happened. " _He's_ sorry."

"My things," Jaskier says. "They may still have them. Can you— if they do, then—"

"Yeah," Eskel interrupts, so Jaskier doesn't have to try to put words to his request. "I'll make sure he gets them."

"And the flowers," Jaskier says, reaching up to brush them lightly where they rest on Eskel's head. "And tell... tell Geralt I forgive him? And... what the flowers mean."

"Violets for faithfulness, rosemary for remembrance, daisies for true love," Eskel repeats, to make sure Jaskier knows he won't forget.

"I should've grown forget-me-nots," Jaskier murmurs absently. "Well. Too late now I suppose."

"He won't," Eskel says firmly.

Jaskier smiles sadly. "Yeah. I hope he does a little, at least. Enough to keep going."

Eskel reaches out and presses his hand to the back of Jaskier's neck. This place _must_ be magic, maybe even holy; Jaskier's skin is solid and warm.

"We'll keep him going," Eskel promises. "All of us."

Jaskier's smile is tear-streaked but wide and sincere. "Good," he whispers, and leans forward to press his forehead to Eskel's. "Thank you."

Eskel closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Jaskier is gone, and the flowers and grass and golden-green sunlight are gone, the clearing dry and barren as if cursed to give no life in punishment for the life that was taken here.

The whole village is waiting anxiously when Eskel returns from the forest, a crown of flowers on his head and fury in his eyes.

"Who," he growls at the assembled people, "was involved in the sacrifice?"

Eight adults are taken from the village at the edge of Eskel's sword, his lips pressed into a thin line. It's a small village; eight is not an insubstantial number of lost hands.

"His things," he asks one of the shaken survivors. "Do you still have them?"

"Yes," she whispers. "No traders worth offering them to have come through yet."

"Get them."

She scurries off, and Eskel turns to the other remaining villagers, who tremble, refuse to meet his eyes, but the scent of fear is shot through with guilt.

"His spirit is gone for now," he tells them. "Remove him from the spring. Give him a proper burial. Honor him as deeply as you can, and never do this again."

There's a ripple of nodding as the young woman returns with a lute case and a small travel pack with a bedroll, shoving them anxiously at Eskel. He takes them silently and retrieves Scorpion from where he's tied outside the tavern, attaching the extra pack and instrument to his saddle.

It's late, and he won't reach the next town before sunset, but he won't spend the night in this place.

He'll need to find Geralt on the Path - this is too heavy to keep until winter, he deserves to have the chance to grieve before Yen brings his cub back to Kaer Morhen, if only so the worst of it can be dealt with away from the child.

It's going to be a long summer, Eskel thinks.

A breeze ruffles his hair and the flower crown that's still perched on it, carrying the faint scent of chamomile and sandalwood with it.


End file.
